da don. @borednblk - Tumblr Blog

Mar 21

⋆.ೃ࿔AN EYE FOR AN EYE ᝰ In which Dasha learns that perhaps she is better with her husband pairing : dasha 'wonder' ward x ledger ward warnings : ledger being a crash out, grown folk shit too chile

song recs : losing you - naomi scott, hurt you - toni braxton, loud - olivia dean Dasha had only seen Ledger truly irate once in her life, and even then the rage had not belonged wholly to him so much as to grief wearing his face like borrowed skin. It had been during that jagged, brutal stretch after Scotty died, when mourning had stopped looking like tears and started looking like ruin, when he had driven his fist clean through the drywall in a single, ugly burst of helplessness and stood there afterward breathing like a man who had lost the war against his own body. She had patched his knuckles up herself that night, sitting him down at the edge of the bathtub while he refused to meet her eyes, and the apology had come almost as quickly as the violence had, clumsy and low and ashamed, because Ledger’s anger had always flared hard and then burned itself out, leaving behind guilt and silence and the hollowed exhaustion of a man already halfway to the next stage of grief.

Back then, she had thought that was the extent of him. Thought that even at his worst there was some invisible line he could not cross, some final border his love for her would not let him approach. Thought, perhaps foolishly, that whatever darkness lived in her husband, it did not know how to rise in defense of itself so completely that it became frightening.

Standing in the doorway of that cabin, with dawn still bruising the mountains blue and the porch boards cold beneath her bare feet, Dasha realized how wrong she had been.

She saw Ledger’s hand unclench once, then again, then a third time, each slow flex of his fingers looking less like movement and more like restraint dragged into the light by force. It was the kind of gesture that made the air itself seem to tighten, as though the morning had suddenly become too narrow to contain him. His body had gone unnaturally still in every other place, all six foot five of him drawn up and held together with a kind of terrible, vibrating control, but that hand kept betraying him, opening and closing at his side like something in him was trying to remember whether it was made for reaching or for damage. The ring sat heavy in his pocket. His jaw had locked so tightly she could see the strain of it from where she stood. Even the silence around him felt dangerous now, dense and electrical, like the hush that settles over the world a half-second before a storm splits the sky open.

The man on the porch felt it too.

Of course he did.

He had been awkward from the moment the door opened, all polite posture and borrowed ease, but the second Ledger stepped fully into view, the poor fool seemed to realize all at once that whatever little domestic scene he had just wandered out of did not belong to him, had never belonged to him, and that he was now standing directly in the path of something older, bigger, and infinitely more volatile than he had the right to be near. He looked from Dasha to Ledger and then back again, his whole frame losing its shape under the weight of that stare. Ledger did not shout. He did not move. He did not need to. Fury radiated off him with the cold, merciless force of a blade held steady in a large hand. It turned his height monstrous. Turned the breadth of his shoulders into a warning. Turned the mountain air mean.

The other man shifted, suddenly all elbows and swallowed words, the steam from his coffee twisting uselessly between them like it, too, wanted out of the moment before it got worse. He took a backward step down off the porch so quickly it almost looked like retreat, the mug wobbling in his hand, his pride shrinking in real time beneath the sheer, imposing fact of Ledger Ward in full and terrible silence.

“Should be all good, D,” he mumbled, voice thinned out by nerves, by caution, by the unmistakable instinct for self-preservation that had finally kicked in with some urgency. Then, as if even speaking another sentence might count as provoking fate, he dipped his head and scrambled off with all the graceless haste of a man trying not to run while very much wanting to. Gravel shifted under his boots. The screen door gave a pitiful little shudder behind him. Within seconds he was halfway down the drive, making himself scarce so fast it bordered on comical, if there had been anything at all funny about the expression on Ledger’s face.

Because Dasha had never, not once, seen him look like that.

Not devastated. Not grieved. Not merely angry.

No, this was something blacker, quieter, more primitive than any of those things, like every sleepless night, every unanswered call, every police update, every image his mind had forced on him over twenty-one days of absence had just now found a body to pour themselves into. He stood there at the foot of her porch like a man who had driven straight through hell and arrived only to find another man at her door before he had even gotten the chance to knock. The sight of him made her stomach drop in one long, cold line, because for the first time since she had known him, Dasha understood that Ledger’s rage had never been small at all. It had only ever been leashed.

And now, with his hand opening and closing at his side and his eyes fixed on the retreating back of the man who had just come out of her cabin, the leash looked very, very thin.

“So this what you been up to for three weeks?” he muttered, the words dropping low and ugly from his mouth as he stared her down, and whatever remorse had still been clinging to Dasha in thin little shreds burned clean out of her body right then and there. It did not merely fade, did not soften or retreat politely into the background; it left her in a rush, as if his accusation had lit a match to it, and all that remained in its place was offense, bright and hot and immediate. She looked back at him with the full force of her temper, chin tipped up, eyes narrowed, every bit of mountain-cabin softness stripped from her face in an instant.

“Negro, please,” she said, rolling her eyes with a kind of exhausted contempt that landed harder than if she’d screamed, and then she turned from him and walked back into the cabin like he was the one trespassing on her peace and not the other way around.

Ledger followed, of course he did.

He filled the doorway so completely that the morning light seemed to bend around him, all broad shoulders and hard lines and storm-cloud silence, physically imposing to damn near anybody else on earth, but not to her, never to her, because Dasha had known him too long, had patched too many holes in him, had seen him cry too many ugly tears in private to ever be properly cowed by the sheer size of him. Other people might have looked at Ledger and seen intimidation. Dasha looked at him and saw nerve, grief, audacity, and a whole lot of bullshit wrapped in expensive cologne and righteous male anger.

“Dasha, I’m talking to yo’ ass.”

His voice cracked through the cabin after her, low and sharp and used to being obeyed, but Dasha did not so much as break stride. The place was warm with woodsmoke and coffee and the stale ghost of the morning she had been trying to claim for herself before he tore it open with his arrival. The kitchen sat tucked into one side of the room, small and neat in that mountain-cabin way, dish towel on the counter, half-drunk mug still sitting by the sink, a cardigan thrown over the back of one chair. Too intimate. Too lived in. Too easily misunderstood by a man already bleeding from his own imagination. She knew that, and maybe some smaller, meaner part of her enjoyed it for exactly three seconds before the pleasure soured into anger again.

She spun around near the kitchen table so quickly the chair legs gave a little scrape against the floorboards.

“Oh, now you acknowledge me?” she shot back, one hand planting on her hip while the other sliced through the air in disbelief. “Shit, Kenna must’ve left your sorry ass for you to come all this way.”

That landed exactly where she meant it to, a blade slipped neat between the ribs.

Ledger’s face darkened at once, not with shame, not yet, but with that dangerous male offense that came when a woman found the wound and put her finger directly into it without trembling first. He took another step into the room, and the cabin, already small, seemed to shrink around the force of him. There was road dust on his boots. There were shadows under his eyes deep enough to bruise. He looked like a man who had not slept properly in weeks and had driven across state lines powered by nothing but fear and spite and love he no longer knew how to hold cleanly.

“Watch your mouth,” he said, but the warning came out rough around the edges, frayed by exhaustion and something harsher than anger.

Dasha laughed, and the sound was wicked in the way only hurt laughter could be.

“Or what?” she asked, cocking her head. “You gone save me too? That what this is? Another rescue mission? Another sad little broken bird for Ledger Ward to take under his wing?”

His jaw flexed so hard it looked painful.

“You really wanna do this?” he asked.

“Do what?” Dasha snapped, throwing both hands up. “Say out loud what your dumb ass was too cowardly to say in front of all them people back home? Because trust me, nigga, I got time today.”

Ledger let out one bitter breath through his nose, a sound with no humor in it whatsoever, then raked a hand over his mouth and looked around the cabin like the room itself had offended him. His gaze landed on the second mug still on the counter and sharpened. Dasha saw it happen. Saw the moment his mind stitched a story together from woodsmoke and coffee cups and one man walking out the door too early in the morning. Saw the jealousy go dark and old in him, primitive enough to make his shoulders square.

“So what,” he said, voice dropping lower now, more controlled and therefore more dangerous, “I’m supposed to pull up after three weeks of not knowing if you alive, and I find some nigga coming out your door at dawn, and I’m just supposed to what, Dasha? Smile?”

Her eyes flashed.

“You don’t get to stand in my face and act brand new now,” she said, her voice gone silky with fury, which was always when he should have worried most. “You do not get to come all the way up this mountain and start puffing up your chest at me like I owe you some clean, respectable explanation. Not after the shit you pulled.”

“The shit I pulled?” Ledger repeated, staring at her like the words themselves had insulted him. “Dasha, you vanished. You disappeared on everybody. You had police involved. Maya ain’t know where you was. Your sponsor ain’t know where you was at first. Diem kept asking for you. You had me out my damn mind for three weeks, and I get here and there’s another man in your house.”

“Not my house,” she snapped automatically. “This cabin belongs to my people.”

“Oh, that’s what the fuck we correcting right now?” he shot back, incredulous. “That’s the part that matters?”

Dasha crossed her arms over herself, not because she felt small but because she knew if she did not hold herself together physically, her temper might shake clean through her skin. “What matters is you barging in here full of bass and bullshit like you got some moral high ground.”

Ledger barked out a laugh so humorless it sounded like it scraped his throat on the way up. “Moral high ground? Dasha, I found another man walking out your door.”

“And I found my husband emotionally laid up with the woman who killed his best friend,” she said so fast the words seemed to leap from her mouth on instinct. “We both seeing shit we don’t like.”

The room went still.

Not quiet. Still. There was a difference. Quiet was absence. Stillness was a held breath before impact.

Ledger’s eyes went flat in a way that made the hair on her arms rise, but Dasha was too far inside the fight to care now, too wounded, too stubborn, too unwilling to let him drag her into defense when she had spent twenty-one days trying not to drown in the consequences of what he’d done.

“That man was helping me with firewood and checking the damn generator,” Dasha said, her mouth twisting with that cool, poisonous kind of contempt that always showed up when her feelings were too big to carry plainly. Then she tipped her head and kept going, because once Dasha got hurt enough, she did not merely argue, she reached for the sharpest thing in the room and made language of it. “But even if he wasn’t, even if I had him laid out on that couch all comfortable in his drawls, eating pancakes and calling me ‘baby’ in your face, hell—” her laugh came out low and ugly, more blade than amusement, “—if I was on my damn knees when you walked in, you still would not have room to look at me crazy.”

The cabin went still.

Not quiet. Still.

The kind of stillness that made the wood in the walls seem to brace itself.

Ledger did not answer right away, and that—more than shouting, more than cursing, more than any fast little flare of temper—was what made the air change. He just stood there in the middle of that small mountain kitchen with his shoulders squared and his jaw locked so hard it looked painful, his eyes fixed on her with the kind of dark, depthless intensity that made him seem larger than six foot five, as though rage had filled out the silhouette of him and made him monstrous in the oldest, most masculine sense of the word. His hand opened once at his side. Then closed. Then opened again, slow enough to look controlled if you did not know him, and Dasha knew him too well not to recognize the violence in the restraint.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out low and level and terrible.

“You would’ve watched me kill him.”

There was no bark in it. No theatrical flare. No heat for the sake of noise. He said it with the dead calm of a man who had already seen the whole picture in his mind and was speaking from the center of it. That made it worse. Infinitely worse.

Ledger took one step toward her, then another, and the floorboards answered beneath his weight with old, protesting groans. “You wanna play in my face, cool. You wanna say the foulest shit you can think of just to see what lands, cool. But don’t stand there and talk to me like I’m some ordinary nigga with ordinary feelings about you.” His nostrils flared once, and he gave a short, joyless laugh that sounded like it had scraped his throat on the way out. “You think I would’ve came all this way, half out my damn mind, after twenty-one days of not knowing if you was breathing, and then stood there politely while another man made himself at home where my wife lays her head?”

He shook his head slowly, once, like the very thought offended him down to the marrow.

“Nah,” he muttered. “Nah. There would not have been no talking me down. No noble little speech. No stepping back and trying to hear both sides. If I had walked in here and seen another man touching what belongs to me, looking at you like he had some claim, breathing too easy in your space like he forgot whose wife he was near…” His eyes dropped briefly, then came back to her face darker than before, lower and meaner and far more honest than was safe. “That would’ve been his last comfortable morning.”

The words landed in the room like iron.

Water still ticked softly somewhere deeper in the cabin, the shower not fully turned off, the old pipes talking to themselves in the walls, but here in the kitchen everything had gone taut as a wire. Dasha could feel her own pulse now, loud and hard and angry in the base of her throat, but Ledger looked like his had sunk lower, into that dangerous, cold place where men stopped posturing and started meaning every syllable exactly as spoken.

“You know what the difference is?” he asked, taking another step until the space between them had thinned into something charged and volatile. “What happened with Kenna was me being weak. Me being selfish. Me being a coward in places I should’ve been disciplined.” His jaw ticked hard. “What you just described? That would make me something else entirely.”

He planted one hand flat on the counter beside her then, hard enough to make the wood knock against the wall, and the sound cracked through the room like a warning shot. Not because he meant it for her. Never for her. That was the thing that made Ledger most frightening when it came to Dasha: the violence in him never turned toward her, only outward, toward anything foolish enough to threaten, touch, diminish, or lay claim where he believed claim had already been made.

His head dipped, and when he looked at her again from beneath his brow, the expression in his face was dark enough to make the morning itself feel too soft for what lived in him.

“Do not confuse my guilt with gentleness,” he said. “Do not confuse me knowing I failed you with me suddenly becoming the kind of man who’ll stand there and eat disrespect where you’re concerned. I can hate what I did, I can hate myself for what I let happen, and still lose every last piece of good sense over you in the same damn breath. Both things can be true.”

Dasha’s mouth parted, but Ledger kept going, his voice dropping quieter, which only made it more dangerous, more intimate, more likely to slide under the skin and stay there.

“You wanna know what I saw when that man stepped out your door?” he asked. “I saw twenty-one days of fear turn into one second of pure black rage. That’s what I saw. I saw every mile I drove up this mountain, every call that went unanswered, every night I laid there thinking maybe I’d never see you again, and then I saw some nigga coming out your morning like he belonged in it.” His upper lip curled slightly, not in disgust at her, but at the memory. “If he hadn’t had enough sense to get the hell off that porch when he did, you would’ve seen a version of me I ain’t proud of and ain’t apologizing for either.”

He straightened a little then, just enough to drag in a breath, but it did nothing to soften the hard, ruinous set of him.

“Because you are my wife,” he said, and the sentence came out with all the weight of oath, of blood, of old-world possession sharpened by love. “My wife. Not a title I say when it sound nice. Not a pretty little word for public. Mine in the way that means if another man gets stupid where you’re concerned, I stop being a reasonable person. Mine in the way that means there are parts of me built specifically to destroy whatever tries to come for what I love.”

That was when something flashed in Dasha’s face, hot and offended and wounded all over again, because of course it did. Because she was Dasha. Because even now, with all that darkness in him laid bare, she would rather square up to it than step around it.

“Oh, hell no, I know prison barbie ain't got you feeling goddamn entitled," Dasha took a step toward him then, small compared to him in size and not in spirit at all, her voice climbing with every syllable. “Nigga, you the one showed up at my door like some aggrieved husband in a Tyler Perry movie, talking ’bout, ‘So this what you been up to for three weeks?’ as if you didn’t spend months making me feel like I was standing outside my own marriage knocking.”

Ledger’s stare cut into her.

“You really gone keep comparing this to that?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “Because that is exactly what the fuck it feels like.”

He dragged both hands down his face, then planted them on his hips, pacing two short steps away before turning back to her with all that restless, caged-up male energy making the little cabin look far too small for his body. “I came up here because I thought you could’ve been dead.”

Dasha’s expression flickered, just for a second, but he saw it and pushed right through.

“You hear me?” he demanded, voice cracking louder now, the rage in it braided tight with fear. “Dead. Drunk. Hurt. Gone for real. That’s what I been living with while you was up here playing Little House on the Prairie with random niggas bringing you wood.”

Her mouth dropped open in offended disbelief.

“See, that’s exactly why I left your ass,” she said, giving a little laugh and shaking her head like the stupidity of him was too large to hold in one body. “Because no matter how wrong you are, you say shit with your whole chest like it turns into truth just ’cause it came out loud.”

Ledger pointed at the door, his restraint visibly thinning. “Then help me out and explain why the hell there was a man at your door looking comfortable.”

Dasha threw her hands up. “Because life did not stop moving just because you finally decided to come find me, Ledger. Damn. My cousin sent him up here to help fix shit around the cabin because, unlike you, some people know how to ask what I need instead of accusing me the second they get in my face.”

That one hit hard enough to make him go quiet for a beat.

Then, with all the precision of a man choosing violence because honesty had started hurting too badly, Ledger said, “You knew exactly what it looked like.”

Dasha stared at him.

Then she smiled.

It was not a kind smile. It was not a pretty one either. It was the smile of a woman whose heartbreak had finally fermented into meanness.

“Well, Ledger, maybe we should find a bar for you to give more Kennas a job, since you’re Captain Save-A-Hoe.”

The words cracked across the room like a whip.

Ledger recoiled before he could stop himself. Not physically, not by much, but enough. Enough that she saw it. Enough that the satisfaction came sharp and immediate and disappeared just as fast, leaving behind the old ache she had been trying so hard to turn into anger.

“You know what?” he said, voice gone eerily calm now. “You real slick when you hurt.”

“And you real self-righteous for a nigga who caused the whole damn fire.”

She moved past him then, shoulder brushing his arm hard enough to make the contact feel deliberate, and went to the counter for no reason other than motion, than needing to do something with her body besides throw another object or another sentence. She snatched up her mug, realized it was empty, and set it back down harder than necessary. Behind her, Ledger turned slowly, tracking her with his eyes like she was both the center of his fury and the only thing keeping him upright.

“You think I don’t know I fucked up?” he asked.

Dasha laughed without turning around. “Please. Knowing and changing are two different things.”

“I came here, didn’t I?”

That made her whirl back toward him so fast the mug nearly tipped over.

“Oh, congratulations,” she said, clapping once in a nasty little mockery of applause. “You found your way to North Carolina. You want a cookie? A plaque? You want me to cry because the nigga who emotionally abandoned me got in a truck and followed a transaction alert?”

Ledger’s expression hardened again. “I followed that alert because no one knew if you were okay.”

“And whose fault is that?” she shot back. “Who pushed me to a point where disappearing sounded easier than staying and looking at you?”

His mouth flattened. “So that’s my fault too.”

“Yes!” Dasha shouted, the force of it shaking through the cabin walls. “Yes, nigga, it is. Not all of it. I know I’m grown. I know I made my own choice. But stop standing there acting confused about how I got to the edge when you the one who kept walking me to it.”

The truth of it hung hot and ugly between them.

For a second neither of them moved.

Then Ledger took one slow step closer, his voice dropping, losing some of its noise and gaining something heavier in its place.

“You think I was okay without you?”

Dasha’s eyes flashed with fresh tears she refused to let fall. “I don’t know, Ledger. Was you? ’Cause from where I was standing, you looked mighty occupied.”

His nostrils flared again. “That’s foul.”

She pressed a hand to her chest with false innocence so sharp it bordered on art. “Oh, now I’m foul. Interesting.”

He looked at her then with the kind of tired fury that only comes from loving someone enough to be wounded by every sentence they say. “You say whatever you can to cut deep.”

Dasha held his stare. “And you always act surprised when I bleed back.”

He went quiet again, and this time the quiet felt more dangerous than any shout. The fire had changed shape. It was no longer wild and flailing. It had settled into coals now, bright and mean and capable of burning just as bad with less noise.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low enough that she had to hear him with her whole body.

“You really think that’s all Kenna was to me?”

Dasha tilted her head, mouth trembling with contempt and hurt all at once. “I think whatever she was, it should’ve never been enough to make me feel like I was competing with a ghost and the woman who made him one.”

The sentence landed with a force that seemed to move the air itself.

Ledger closed his eyes for half a second, and when he opened them again, the anger was still there, but behind it sat something rawer, older, more ruinous.

And Dasha, still breathing hard, still slick at the mouth because if she stopped talking she might start crying again, realized with a fresh sting of fury that he was still her match in every way that mattered. Same temper. Same sharp tongue. Same ugly little instinct to strike where the flesh was already torn. He might have towered over her in size, but in spirit they stood eye to eye, two hardheaded, hurt souls in a mountain cabin, throwing sparks at each other and pretending not to notice the whole place already smelled like smoke.

Ledger laughed then, but it was the kind of laugh that had no joy in it whatsoever, the kind that came out of a man when he was too angry to shout without saying something truly unforgivable. He turned away from her for half a beat, dragged a hand over his beard, then looked back at her with that hard, bright stare of his, like he was lining his next words up in the chamber before he fired them.

“Aight,” he said slowly, the syllable dragging. “Since we being honest now, let’s talk about Calvin.”

Dasha’s mouth twitched, not with amusement, but with the sharp little satisfaction of somebody who had been waiting for the ugly center of the matter to finally show its face. She leaned one hip against the counter and folded her arms, chin lifting a fraction, every inch of her posture saying she was not about to be cowed into contrition just because he had finally gotten around to naming the thing that had been chewing on him since the bar.

“Oh, now we cooking,” she said coolly. “Go on then. Say what you really wanna say.”

Ledger took another step toward her, slow and heavy, the floorboards letting out low groans beneath his boots as though even the cabin itself knew this conversation was about to turn uglier before it turned truthful. “You knew that nigga wanted you.”

Dasha rolled her eyes so hard it bordered on disrespect as an art form. “And?”

That one little word struck him like a slap.

“And?” he repeated, voice dropping, incredulous in a way that sounded almost offended by the size of her nerve. “That’s what you got for me? ‘And?’”

“Yes, and.” She shrugged, careless in the way only a woman who knew she was getting under a man’s skin on purpose could be careless. “Calvin want a lot of things. That ain’t automatically got shit to do with me.”

Ledger stared at her for a long second, then gave a slow, disbelieving shake of his head. “You so full of shit.”

Dasha’s brows lifted. “Excuse you?”

“No, don’t ‘excuse you’ me,” he snapped, pointing at her with that thick, accusatory finger of his. “You knew exactly what the fuck you was doing. You knew he been sweet on you since before all this. You knew he be standing too close, talking too soft, looking at you like he trying to solve you. And you invited him into my bar anyway.”

Dasha let out a little sound that was half laugh, half scoff, and turned away just long enough to grab her mug and realize all over again that it was empty. She set it down with a click that felt like punctuation. “First of all, Calvin did not come into your bar. He came into the bar. Let’s not get possessive now, nigga, it’s unbecoming.”

Ledger’s jaw clenched. “You stay playing in my face.”

“And you stay acting like every man that look at me oughta drop dead on the spot because you finally remembered I’m desirable.”

That one hit so clean and so square that he went still. Not speechless, because Ledger Ward was rarely ever fully speechless, but still in the way a man got when a woman laid out an ugly truth he had no quick, clean way around.

Dasha saw it and pressed harder, because of course she did, because they were both bleeding and neither one of them had sense enough in that moment to stop touching the wound.

“You know what the funny part is?” she asked, voice gone syrup-slick, all dangerous sweetness. “Calvin did not have to do much. That’s what should really piss you off. He ain’t have to pull me nowhere. Ain’t have to whisper nothing scandalous in my ear. Ain’t even have to try that hard. All he had to do was look at me like I existed.”

Ledger’s expression changed then, and the shift in him was subtle but immediate, like a weather front rolling dark over open land. “Watch yourself.”

“Oh, I’m watching myself just fine,” she replied, pushing off the counter and taking one measured step toward him. “Been watching myself for months, actually, because somebody had to. Since apparently my husband got distracted saving the woman who wrecked everybody’s damn life.”

“That’s not what the fuck this is about,” he bit out.

“No?” Dasha’s eyes flashed. “Then why you still standing here talking about Calvin instead of talking about why I even noticed the attention in the first place?”

Ledger barked out another humorless laugh. “Because I’m trying real hard not to lose my shit over the fact that another nigga felt comfortable enough to flirt with my wife in front of me.”

“Maybe he felt comfortable because I was acting like a woman whose husband forgot she was his,” she said, quick as a match striking, and the sentence crackled just as hot.

He looked at her then with the kind of anger that came from feeling not only challenged but exposed. “You wanted me jealous.”

Dasha tilted her head. “Did I?”

“Yes,” he said flatly, with far too much certainty to be bluffing. “You wanted me jealous, you wanted me twitching, and you wanted me to look over there and see exactly how easy it would be for another man to step into the space I been leaving empty.”

For the first time in the argument, Dasha’s face flickered.

Not enough for him to call it softness. Not enough for her to lose the upper hand entirely. But enough for the truth of his read to move through the room like smoke, thin and undeniable.

She laughed anyway, because if there was one thing Dasha was not about to do, it was hand him the full win that easily.

“Well,” she said, lifting one shoulder in a small, hateful shrug, “if the shoe fit, nigga.”

Ledger took another step closer, and now there was barely any room left between them at all, only a sliver of mountain-cabin air and all the old hurt they kept throwing back and forth like it was currency. “That shit was childish.”

“And Kenna wasn’t?” Dasha shot back so fast the words nearly collided. “You got a whole lot to say about childish now.”

His mouth flattened. “Don’t do that.”

“I will do exactly that,” she said, and there was something regal in the way she held herself even in fury, some old queenly thing in her spine that made her seem taller than she was. “You do not get to come in here with your chest puffed out over Calvin when you had me out there looking stupid over a whole emotional entanglement.”

Ledger’s nostrils flared. “Entanglement?” he repeated, disgust coloring every syllable. “That’s what the fuck we calling it now?”

Dasha’s smile was all teeth and no warmth. “You want a prettier word? I’m sure Kenna got one. Maybe she can write it down for you since y’all was over there building intimacy and community and whatever other Oprah-ass shit y’all had going on.”

“Dasha.”

“No, don’t ‘Dasha’ me in that tone.” She lifted a finger between them, a warning and a dare wrapped into one. “You wanna sit here and interrogate me about Calvin like I’m the one who stepped out emotionally? Calvin never got what you gave Kenna, and that’s exactly why this line of questioning is insulting.”

Ledger’s eyes darkened. “You let him think he had a chance.”

The sentence landed low and mean, and Dasha, because she was Dasha and headstrong to the point of destruction, smiled wider.

“Maybe I did.”

He stared at her.

The room held its breath.

Then Ledger leaned in just enough to make the next words feel private and dangerous at once. “You bold as hell saying that to my face.”

Dasha did not budge. “Who else face I’ma say it to?”

For one thin second, something close to admiration flickered beneath the anger in his eyes, because that had always been the thing about them, hadn’t it? Dasha would mouth off at a lion if she thought he deserved it, and Ledger, for all his temper, had always loved her most in the moments she refused to shrink. Loved it and hated it, sometimes in the same breath.

“You know what, I’m not even surprised,” he said at last, voice low and lethal. “You get hurt and your first instinct is to make sure I hurt too.”

“And your first instinct,” Dasha fired back, “is apparently to find another woman to pour yourself into and call it grief.”

That got him good.

He looked away from her then, just for a second, just long enough to betray the fact that the hit had landed beneath the ribs where all the important damage got done. When he looked back, his eyes had gone cold and bright.

“Calvin ain’t me,” he said.

Dasha’s lips curved faintly. “Thank God.”

Ledger took that one right on the chin, and when he answered, his voice had turned velvet-dark, which was always the most dangerous version of his anger, because shouting meant he was still reaching. Quiet meant he’d found the knife.

“You right,” he said. “He ain’t me, because that nigga been circling around you like a hungry dog for years and still ain’t get close enough to matter.”

Dasha blinked once, then let out a little offended laugh. “Oh, so now we insulting people for being decent?”

“Decent?” Ledger repeated, his brows lifting. “That’s what he is? Decent?”

“Yes,” Dasha said, slick and quick, “decent. Educated. Fine. Gainfully employed. Knows how to look a woman in her eyes when she talking. Real tragic set of qualities, I know.”

Ledger’s head tipped back for half a second, and when it came down again, he looked at her like he could not decide whether to drag her into a kiss or strangle the next sentence out of her. “You saying all this like you trying to prove something.”

“I am proving something,” she said. “I’m proving that I had options, Ledger. I’m proving that while you was over there wrapped up in your perfect little sympathy project, there were men right in my face willing to treat me like I was still the center of the damn room.”

He went so still at that phrase that she almost regretted it, almost, but pride was a vicious little thing and she let the moment pass without softening.

“Perfect little sympathy project,” he repeated, and now his voice was barely above a murmur, all the more dangerous for it. “That what you think she was?”

Dasha folded her arms again. “If the title fits.”

“Nah,” he said, stepping into her space in a way that would have made another woman retreat, but Dasha only lifted her chin higher. “Say what you really mean.”

She looked him dead in the face and did not blink. “I mean while you were busy being emotionally available to the woman who killed Scotty, I had another man in my face reminding me I was still worth paying attention to.”

There it was.

No dodge. No slick turn. No joke to lighten the blow.

Just the truth, mean and plain.

Ledger absorbed it in silence first, the kind of silence that gathered weight with every passing second, and when he finally spoke again, his voice came out rougher, fuller, like it had been dragged up from somewhere deep and bruised.

“And did it work?”

Dasha frowned. “What?”

“Did it work?” he repeated, eyes fixed on her with a steadiness that felt almost cruel. “All that little shit you was pulling with Calvin, all that letting him stand close, letting him smile in your face, letting me see it. Did it do what you wanted it to do?”

She held his gaze and said nothing.

Ledger laughed once, quietly, and there was something exhausted in the sound now, something angry and ancient and wounded down to the bone.

“That’s what I thought,” he muttered.

Dasha’s temper flared fresh. “Nigga, don’t stand there acting smug. If anything, the fact that you noticed proves my point.”

“It proves you know exactly how to get under my skin,” he shot back. “Ain’t the same as proving you wanted that man.”

“No,” she said, and the word came out harder than the rest, “I didn’t want Calvin.”

Ledger went still again.

Dasha could see the question rise in him before he said it, could see the ugly hope and jealousy and hurt wrestling in his face over who would win the right to speak next.

“So what the fuck did you want, then?” he asked.

And Dasha, because she was headstrong and hurt and too honest when the wound got pressed just right, looked at him with all that fury and all that ache shining under her skin and said, “I wanted you to act like you still saw me.”

“So why don’t you go back to Barbie, have your dreamhouse, shit, Ledger, I don’t give a damn,” Dasha muttered, the words tossed over her shoulder with all the flat, exhausted cruelty of a woman who knew exactly how to make a sentence sound like dismissal when what it really held was hurt sharp enough to draw blood.

Then she turned away from him and walked deeper into the cabin, down the narrow little hall toward the single bedroom and the attached bath, her shoulders stiff, her steps clipped, every line of her body announcing that if he followed her, he did so at his own peril. song recs : hurt you - toni braxton , the one - jorja smith, issues/ hold on - teyana taylor, mulholland drive :snopp dogg and october london

Ledger stood there for one suspended second after she disappeared from view, the old floorboards creaking under the shift of his weight, and shut his eyes hard enough to make the bones of his face show. It was not peace he found in that darkness, nor calm, nor anything close to gentleness. What he found instead was the ragged edge of his own temper, the raw and splintered place where fear had been sawing at him for three weeks, and he had to stand there and force patience into his bloodstream like medicine. He dragged a hand down his face, breathed once through his nose, then bent and kicked off his boots with a kind of tired violence before heading after her, because there were some moments in a marriage when distance helped and some when it only gave lies more room to grow, and Ledger knew this one belonged firmly to the latter.

By the time he reached the bathroom, the shower was already running.

The sound of it filled the little space before he even crossed the threshold, a steady rush against tile and glass, hot enough that steam had begun claiming the room in pale, ghostly sheets, clouding the mirror, softening the sharp edges of everything. The air in there was thick and wet and faintly scented with soap, and through the blur of it he could see her—her bare silhouette behind the shower screen, head bowed slightly, one hand braced on the tile as the water poured over her like she was trying to stand still long enough to rinse the whole argument off her skin.

Ledger stopped in the doorway and watched her for a moment.

Not as a man watched a stranger, not even as a husband watched a wife, really, but as someone watched the center of his whole damn life after thinking for twenty-one days that he might never lay eyes on her again. Steam curled around her in silver ribbons. The water struck her shoulders and broke into streams that ran down the shape of her, turning her into something half-real and half-memory, soft at the edges but no less devastating for it. And because his body was still his body, because his love for her had never once been cleanly separate from the ache she stirred in him, the sight landed low and deep in him all the same, but it was not lust leading him into that bathroom. It was urgency. It was the need to stop this from becoming another moment where she turned away and wrote a whole story in the silence he left behind.

So he stripped down with quick, practical movements, peeling off one article of clothing after another and letting them fall where they landed, because modesty was a strange thing to reach for in a marriage that had already seen each other ruined in every possible sense. Then he tugged his briefs down, stepped into the shower behind her, and immediately the heat struck him too, a full-bodied rush of water and steam and the clean scent of her soap. Dasha startled at once, half-turning.

“Ledger, wha—”

“Imma need you to shut up for a minute and listen.”

The words came out low and rough, not shouted, but heavy enough to sit in the steam between them like another form of weather.

Dasha’s eyes flashed through the mist. “Don’t tell me to shut u—”

“Dasha Stevie Ward, shut your ass up and listen, damn, always running that damn mouth, shit.”

That would have been too much from another man. It might even have been too much from him on another day. But there was something in the way he said it now—less contempt than desperation, less command than a man finally cornered into saying be still long enough for me to tell the truth before your hurt writes the ending for both of us. He planted one hand against the shower wall beside her, not trapping, not crowding, but making it plain he was not about to let her wriggle out of this one on a technicality.

Water streamed over both of them, hot and relentless. It slicked his hair dark against his scalp, traced the hard cut of his shoulders, ran down the tattoos on his arms in darkened lines. Dasha stood with her chin lifted in pure offense, steam beading along her lashes, every inch of her still bristling, but she did not step out. She did not leave. She only stared at him with that same mean, shining fury she had been aiming at him all morning, and Ledger, breathing hard through the heat, understood that this was the opening he was getting.

So he took it.

“Ain’t no Barbie,” he said, and his voice lost some of its bite now, settling into something steadier, deeper, the kind of tone that came from a man laying bricks one by one because he finally understood how much of the house had to be rebuilt by hand. “Ain’t no dreamhouse. Ain’t no cute little fantasy I’m trying to run back to. You hearing me, or you just gone stand there making faces at me?”

Dasha’s mouth parted on instinct, ready to fire back, but one look at him seemed to make her pause. There was no performance in his face now, no macho righteousness, no easy indignation. Just exhaustion, soaked clean of pretense. The kind that lived in bone.

“She is not some secret life I wanted,” he went on, each word deliberate, like he meant to pin them down before she could twist them into something else to survive him by. “She was grief. She was guilt. She was me being too fucked up and too stupid to know the difference between feeling sorry for somebody and letting that sorry shit turn into something that had no business breathing in the first place. That’s what it was. Ugly, weak, selfish, yes. But it was not my dream, Dasha. It was not my home. It was not no damn ‘dreamhouse.’”

The water kept rushing around them, turning the room into a little world apart, one where every breath sounded closer than it should have, every silence fuller.

Dasha folded her arms over herself, not because she was cold, but because anger had become a kind of armor and she was not yet willing to stand there with nothing between her and what he was saying. “Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered.

Ledger’s jaw flexed, but he stayed with it.

“Nah,” he said, taking one careful step closer, not enough to touch her yet, just enough that she had to feel the heat of him in the steam. “Don’t do that. Don’t stand there and act like I came all this way because some woman put me out and now I’m circling back to where it’s comfortable. I drove my ass up this mountain because I thought you could’ve been dead. I thought you could’ve relapsed. I thought I might find your body before I found your mouth, and that shit…” He broke off and swallowed, hard enough for her to see it. “That shit tore me up in ways you clearly still ain’t got room to imagine.”

That landed.

Not enough to soften her entirely, but enough to disturb the surface.

His hand left the wall and came down to his side again, fingers flexing once under the water. “So no, I’m not here because ‘Barbie’ left me. I’m here because you did. I’m here because my wife disappeared, because every day you stayed gone another part of me started thinking maybe I wasn’t ever gone get the chance to hear you cuss me out again.” A humorless little breath escaped him then, almost a laugh, almost grief. “I’m here because there ain’t no version of my life that makes sense with you cut clean out of it.”

Dasha looked away then, briefly, but Ledger was too far in now to let her slip through a crack.

“Look at me.”

She didn’t.

So he reached, not rough, not forcing, only enough to touch two fingers beneath her chin and turn her face back toward him through the steam. Her skin was hot from the shower. Her eyes were still angry, still bright, but there was hurt in them too, old and fresh all at once, and the sight of it made his voice lower still.

“You wanna call her Barbie, cool,” he said. “You wanna say Captain Save-A-Hoe, say it. You wanna hit every ugly nerve in me on the way through, you obviously already started, so hell, keep going. But don’t you stand there and tell yourself I had some perfect little dream with her. Don’t you reduce what I did to some shiny fantasy like I was off building a second life and forgot to text my wife back.” His thumb brushed once, absently, through the water beading at her jaw. “That would almost be easier to explain. Easier to hate. Easier to leave me for.”

She stared at him, breathing slower now, though no less sharply.

“What I did,” he said, and this time there was no hiding inside the sentence at all, no distance, no euphemism, no man-sized trick of phrasing it two feet to the left of the truth, “was let grief make me disloyal in my spirit while standing right next to the woman I vowed never to leave alone in it. That’s what the fuck I did. I let guilt turn me into a coward. I gave another woman emotional room that belonged to you. And because of that, I made you feel like you had to invite Calvin into the picture just to prove to yourself you could still be seen.”

For the first time since he stepped into the bathroom, Dasha went properly still.

It was not surrender. It was impact.

He saw it and pressed on, because sometimes tenderness came dressed as refusal to let a person retreat from the truth.

“You wanna know why I was so pissed seeing a man come out that door?” he asked, voice dropping quieter, rougher, until she had to hear the ache in it. “It wasn’t because I thought you owed me sainthood. It was because for three weeks I been living with every sick little image my mind could make, and then I get here and the first thing I see is some nigga stepping out your cabin looking like he belong in your morning. And after what I did, after what I know I did, you think I wasn’t gone feel that? You think I wasn’t gone taste my own medicine and damn near choke on it?”

Dasha’s mouth trembled then, just barely, before she steadied it.

Ledger exhaled through his nose and leaned back just enough to put a sliver more air between them, enough to prove this was not about crowding her into agreement. “I’m not asking you to forget what I did,” he said. “I’m not even asking you to stop being mad. Hell, be mad. You earned that. But set the picture straight when you paint it. I did not choose her over some better life. I chose confusion over honesty. Guilt over courage. Self-pity over my damn marriage. That’s the truth. That’s ugly enough on its own. You ain’t gotta dress it up like some fairytale for broken white girls.”

That last line tugged something unwilling at the corner of Dasha’s mouth, so brief and bitter it hardly counted as a smile, but Ledger saw it all the same. Saw it and kept going, because even a crack that small was still a crack.

“You are not competing with some perfect girl,” he said, and the force of the sentence seemed to settle under the water, deep and final. “There wasn’t no competition. There wasn’t no comparison. There was just me being too far gone in my own bullshit to honor what was already mine. To honor who was already mine.”

The steam had thickened by then, wrapping around them so heavily the bathroom felt less like a room and more like the inside of a confession. Water ran over her collarbones, over his chest, over the tattoos she knew too well, and the whole scene held that strange, dangerous intimacy only long marriages ever seemed to know, where fury and closeness and old desire all stood in the same small space and breathed the same air.

Dasha swallowed.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before, but no less sharp for being low. “You sure know how to talk when you’re in trouble.”

Ledger let out one tired little huff and shook his head. “Nah. I know how to talk when I’m scared you already decided what the story is and I don’t get to fix the part where you got it wrong.”

She looked at him then, long and hard, as if trying to decide whether the man in front of her was the same one she had run from or some wrecked variation the mountains had made of him overnight. The water kept falling. The steam kept rising. Somewhere beneath all of it, the fight still lived, but its shape had changed now. Less knives. More exposed nerve.

Finally, Dasha tipped her head and said, “Then why did it feel like I was losing you to her?”

And there it was.

Not the slick talk. Not the back-and-forth. The wound.

Ledger closed his eyes for one brief second, opened them again, and whatever answered in his face before it reached his mouth was so raw it made the whole room feel suddenly smaller.

Ledger’s face changed the moment the question left her mouth.

Not because he had not expected it, not because he had not heard some version of it in every silence she had given him for the past three weeks, but because hearing her ask it out loud made it impossible to hide from the ugliest part of the truth. The water kept pouring over both of them in hot, relentless sheets, steam climbing the walls in ghostly veils, and there in the middle of all that heat he looked suddenly colder, as if the answer lived somewhere so deep in him that reaching for it meant dragging up something half-drowned and ugly besides.

“Because I made it feel that way,” he said at last, and there was no fight in the sentence, no slick little dodge, no masculine instinct to spin it prettier than it was. “Because I let my guilt get familiar. Because I let that shit linger. Because I stood there trying to play noble with my grief and forgot that every second I let that line blur, you were standing on the other side of it wondering if you still had a husband in full.”

Dasha laughed then, but the sound was too brittle to be mistaken for amusement.

“Well, damn,” she muttered, blinking water and anger from her lashes. “Look at you finally growing a spine in the shower.”

Ledger’s jaw ticked.

There she was again, that sharp little mouth of hers, that instinctive reach for sarcasm whenever the truth got close enough to touch bare skin. He knew her too well not to recognize it for what it was. Dasha got slick when she was cornered emotionally, when tenderness threatened to drag something real out of her before she had decided whether she could survive saying it. It was armor. Pretty armor, yes, and often funny and often mean, but armor all the same.

“Stevie,” he said, and her middle name in his mouth sounded less like affection just then than warning.

But Dasha only tipped her head and gave him that look, the one that had made him lose arguments and patience and peace of mind since the day he met her, all honeyed defiance and hurt dressed up in attitude.

“No, I’m serious,” she said, voice smooth as river stones and just as slick. “This is nice. This is real nice. You drive all the way up here, stomp through my morning, accuse me of shacking up with the handyman, and now suddenly you want to talk like a nigga with emotional intelligence. I’m proud of you.”

Ledger inhaled slowly.

She saw it, the way his chest expanded, the way he looked at the ceiling for half a beat like he was counting backward from murder, and some tiny wicked part of her felt satisfaction anyway. Because if he was going to drag her into honesty, then he could stand to be scraped up on the way there.

“Keep playing with me,” he muttered.

Dasha’s eyes flashed. “Who’s playing? You the one who came in here acting like I had a whole man stashed in the woods. Maybe if you spent half this energy acting right in the first place, we wouldn’t be having Bible study in my damn shower.”

That one nearly made him smile, nearly, but what rose in Ledger was not amusement. It was something darker and more strained than that, the kind of feeling that came when the woman you loved kept turning every open wound into a joke because the alternative was to stand there and let you see how bad you had really hurt her.

“You want to joke, joke,” he said, taking one slow step closer, water streaking down the hard planes of his chest, his voice dropping until it seemed to vibrate through the steam itself. “But don’t get it twisted. I’m answering you straight, and you keep trying to dance around it because if I say the thing plain enough, you might actually have to stand still and hear me.”

Dasha lifted her chin. “Maybe I don’t want to hear you.”

“Bullshit,” Ledger said immediately. “If you ain’t wanna hear me, you would’ve kicked me out before I ever got my boots off.”

That landed, because it was true, and Dasha hated when he did that, hated when he stepped past her tone and her attitude and put his finger right on the nerve underneath it all like he had every right. She folded her arms tighter over herself and looked away, but only for a second.

“You real cocky for a man that got left,” she said.

Ledger’s expression sharpened. “And you real mouthy for a woman that still want answers.”

“Oh, please,” Dasha scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. You could fall off this mountain right now and the trees would have more comfort for me than you.”

That did it.

Not in some explosive, out-of-control way, not with shouting or grabbing or anything ugly like that, but with a kind of exhausted finality. Ledger moved before she could launch the next sentence, before she could sharpen another clever little blade and throw it just to see where it landed. His hand came up, broad and warm and callused, covering her mouth in one swift, firm motion that startled the breath right out of her, and with the other he backed her into the tiled wall of the shower, not hurting her, not manhandling her, but crowding her just enough that the steam and the heat and the sheer fact of him made it impossible for her to slip sideways into another joke.

Dasha’s eyes went wide in outrage.

Ledger leaned in, water streaming off his brow and down the bridge of his nose, his hand still over her mouth, and looked at her with a kind of dark, tired intensity that made the whole little bathroom feel too small for both of them.

“No,” he said, low and rough and dead serious. “You done. You had your little slick-mouth moment, now you gone stand here and listen to me if it kill you.”

She made an offended sound against his palm, sharp and muffled and furious, and tried to jerk her face away, but Ledger only held steady, not tighter, just steadier, his other hand braced beside her on the tile so she had nowhere to turn except toward him.

“I know,” he muttered, eyes narrowing when she glared at him harder. “I know you mad. Be mad. Hell, stay mad. But you are not gone keep running your damn mouth every time I get close to saying something you don’t wanna sit with.”

Her lashes were wet, whether from steam or anger or the tears that had never gotten very far away, he could not tell. Maybe all three. She looked so offended she might have smited him where he stood if God had loaned her the lightning, but she was listening now, and that was all he needed.

“Because listen to me, Stevie,” he said, and the way he said her middle name then had none of the softness from earlier, none of the teasing warmth, only gravity and possession and the rough edge of a man who had spent too many days talking to her absence. “I did not love that woman. I did not want that woman. I did not look at her and see a future, or peace, or home, or none of the shit you keep trying to put on it so you can be mad cleaner. What I did was weaker than that and uglier than that. I let myself get caught in guilt because it made me feel useful, and I let that usefulness grow where it should not have, and that made me disloyal to you in a way I will hate myself for longer than you probably ever could.”

Dasha’s eyes flickered then, just once, anger and hurt and something more treacherous moving beneath both.

Ledger felt it and kept going, because there was no stopping now, not with her breath warm against his palm and that fierce little stare fixed on him like she would rather choke on pride than give him one inch.

“You hear me?” he asked, and when she stayed stubborn, he gave a tiny, incredulous shake of his head. “Nah, don’t do that. Hear me. There was never no world where Kenna was the better choice. There was never no world where I looked at her and saw what I see when I look at you. She was my guilt. You are my wife. She was a place to hide from what I felt. You are the place I was supposed to bring it. Them two things is not the same, and you know it.”

Her eyes flashed again, and she smacked his wrist lightly in protest, the gesture more indignant than forceful, and Ledger let out one dark little breath through his nose that might have been irritation and might have been relief that she was still fighting him.

“I’ma move my hand,” he said. “And if you start being cute again, I’m putting it right back. You got me?”

The glare she gave him then was so deeply, purely Dasha that despite everything, despite the steam and the anger and the fresh bruise of old hurt, something almost fond moved through him. He lifted his hand slowly.

She took one furious breath the instant her mouth was free.

“You got a lotta damn nerve,” she snapped.

Ledger closed his eyes for the briefest second and then opened them again, his forehead almost dropping to hers from sheer exasperation. “See, this why I be saying you don’t know when to stop.”

“And you don’t know when to shut up,” she shot back immediately, because of course she did, because headstrong lived in her bones and obedience had never once been the language she spoke best. “You come in here manhandling folks and think a speech fixes everything.”

“I did not manhandle you,” he said, scandalized and annoyed in equal measure. “I covered your mouth because you was talking shit every three seconds.”

“That is literally the same—”

“It is not literally the same, and you know it.”

She rolled her eyes so hard he was honestly surprised she didn’t fall over from the force of it. “Lord, save me from emotionally articulate niggas.”

“No,” Ledger said, stepping even closer, and this time when he braced his hand at her waist it was only enough to keep her from slipping away, not force, just presence, just that maddening Ledger steadiness she hated when she was trying to stay angry. “Save you from your own damn mouth, maybe.”

Dasha opened hers immediately, ready with another line, but Ledger cut in before she could swing it.

“You want the picture straight?” he asked, gaze locking onto hers with renewed intensity. “Here it is. I lost Scotty and I lost my damn mind for a while after. I let guilt make me think keeping her afloat meant I was honoring him somehow. That was stupid, that was weak, and that was unfair as hell to you. But even in the middle of all that stupidity, I was still coming home to you. Still wanting you. Still building my whole life around you. Still looking at you like the center of every room. The problem wasn’t that I wanted her more. The problem was that I got lazy with the woman I trusted most to stay.”

That one knocked the fight out of the room for half a beat.

Not because it made things better, but because it named a cruelty so ordinary and so devastatingly common that it hurt different from the rest. Dasha’s face changed. Not softened, not completely, but changed enough for him to see the truth of the hit.

And because Dasha was Dasha, because slickness was the only shield she still had in reach, she lifted one brow and muttered, “So you neglected me because you thought I’d still be there. Oh, that’s much better, Ledger. Thank you for the clarification.”

The sentence was sharp enough to draw blood, but Ledger only huffed once, tired and dark and too honest now to retreat.

“It ain’t better,” he said. “It’s worse. That’s the damn point.”

Her mouth closed.

For the first time since he’d stepped into the shower, she had nothing immediate to throw.

The water kept running around them, hot and steady, steam thick enough now that the room felt close and hidden and a little unreal, like they were standing inside the mouth of their own confession. Ledger looked at her, really looked at her, at the anger still vibrating in her, at the intelligence in her eyes, at the hurt she kept trying to make sarcastic so it wouldn’t look as much like heartbreak.

Then, quieter, “I know you wanted me to feel you turning away. That’s what Calvin was about. You wanted me to see another man standing where I should’ve been standing. You wanted me to be reminded that while I was busy making you feel unseen, the rest of the world still had eyes.”

Dasha looked away.

That was answer enough.

Ledger’s hand slid from her waist to the wall beside her again, caging nothing, only holding the space. “And I did feel it,” he said, voice low. “I felt it like a knife. I felt it at the bar, I felt it on that porch, and I’m still feeling it now. So if that was the point, congratulations, Stevie. Mission accomplished.”

She glanced back at him then, chin up, but her eyes gave her away for a second.

“Good,” she said.

Ledger stared at her for a long beat, then let out the kind of tired laugh that comes when a person is too wounded to be surprised by cruelty anymore. “You are a piece of work.”

“And you married me.”

“Yeah,” he said, gaze dropping briefly to her mouth and then back to her eyes, something darker and more complicated moving under the anger now, something almost helpless in its devotion. “And I’m still standing here, ain’t I?”

Dasha swallowed, her slick little comeback arriving a second too late.

“When did you fall out of love with me?” Ledger looked at her as though the question had stripped every last convenient lie from him and left him standing in nothing but the wreckage of himself.

For a moment he did not move, and in that suspended little pocket of steam and water and grief, he seemed almost unbearably human, not the broad-shouldered, sharp-tongued man who had followed her up a mountain with fury in his blood, not the husband who had stood in doorways and thrown accusations like stones because hurt had made him stupid, but simply a man who could finally see, in full and terrible detail, what he had done to the woman he loved most in this world. The shower ran over both of them in warm, relentless sheets, striking tile with that soft, ceaseless rhythm that made the room feel almost confessional, like the walls themselves had agreed to hold witness. Steam climbed around them like ghost-breath. Water tracked over his face and disappeared into his beard, caught in his lashes, slid down the hard line of his throat, but he did not wipe any of it away. He stood there and let himself be seen.

Then, very slowly, as though the motion cost him something sacred, Ledger dropped to his knees.

Not with drama. Not with performance. Not in the cheap, theatrical way men sometimes begged when what they really wanted was to hurry a woman back into softness before she had the chance to examine the wound. No, this was different. This was a man lowering himself because there was nowhere left for him to stand with any honesty. The tile kissed his knees through the rush of hot water, and the sight of him there, all that height folded down, all that pride bent into something humbler and more devastating, shifted the air in the room so completely that Dasha’s breath caught on it.

“Baby,” he said, and Lord, the word sounded wrecked, sounded like it had been dragged over broken glass on its way out of him. He rested his hands lightly against her thighs, not holding, not claiming, just there, like he needed some contact with her to keep himself from slipping clean out of his own body. He tipped his face up to look at her through the steam, and whatever she had been bracing herself for, it was not that expression. It was not that nakedness. “I need you to hear me all the way through before you decide I still ain’t shit, because maybe I am, maybe I been one, but I need you to hear me anyway.”

Dasha swallowed.

The old slickness rose to the back of her tongue by reflex, some sharp little thing she could say to keep this from getting too close, too raw, too dangerous, but it died there before she could shape it. Because Ledger on his knees did not look like a man trying to win. He looked like a man trying not to drown with his eyes open.

“I did not go to her because she was better than you,” he said, his voice low and rough and gathering force only because the truth in it had become too heavy to speak lightly. “I did not go to her because I was unsatisfied with you. I did not go to her because there was some hole in my marriage that you created and she filled. Don’t you ever, ever put that on your head, Dasha, because that would be the cruelest lie of all.”

His thumbs moved once against her skin, small and absent, as if the old instinct to soothe her had survived even the worst version of himself.

“What happened was uglier than romance and weaker than love, and I’m ashamed of that because men always want their sins to at least sound noble when they confess them, and mine ain’t.” He let out one humorless little breath, almost a laugh, but there was too much self-disgust in it to be mistaken for anything but pain. “Scotty died, and that shit hollowed me out in a place I didn’t know had a bottom. It made me angry, and then it made me guilty, and then it made me tired in a way sleep could not fix. I kept looking at all that hurt like it was something I had to carry alone because if I put it down in front of you, then I had to admit just how much of me was broken by it.”

The water ran harder over his shoulders then, flattening the dark fabric of his hair, making him look even more stripped-down, more bare, more honest than he had a right to be after all the ways he had failed her.

“And then there was her,” he said, and even now, even speaking of Kenna in front of Dasha’s hurt, he did not dress it up. “Not because I wanted her. Not because I loved her. But because she was carrying her own version of the same grave. And somewhere in my stupid, grieving, self-pitying mind, I let myself believe that if I stood near her pain, if I understood it, if I helped her hold it, then maybe that meant I was still doing something for Scotty. Maybe it meant I was honoring him. Maybe it meant I wasn’t as helpless as I felt.”

His face twisted then, a brief, ugly movement of revulsion aimed wholly inward.

“But that was coward shit,” he said, and the sentence landed like iron. “That was coward shit dressed up as compassion. That was me finding a place to pour my grief where I did not have to look directly at what it was doing to the woman who loved me. That was me choosing the easier ache over the harder honesty of coming home and letting my wife see me broken.”

Dasha’s eyes burned.

The steam made everything shimmer slightly, made the room look almost unreal, but his voice cut through it clean and hot and human.

“I need you to understand this part,” he said, leaning forward just a little, not enough to crowd her, only enough that she could feel the urgency in him like another pulse in the water. “I was not reaching for her because I felt less for you. I was reaching for somewhere I could put my guilt without having to face how badly I was failing the best thing in my life. And yes, that makes me selfish. Yes, it makes me weak. Yes, it makes me exactly the kind of nigga who deserves to get left standing in a bar with a ring in his hand and no wife to put it on. I know that. I know it now in a way I will never unknow.”

Dasha’s mouth trembled, just once.

Ledger saw it and dropped his gaze for a second like even that tiny fracture in her composure felt too intimate to witness carelessly.

“I know my actions weren’t good,” he said, more quietly now, the volume lowering only because the confession had gone deeper. “I know they weren’t harmless just because I never touched her. I know emotional betrayal still got teeth, still got hands, still leaves bruises in places nobody else can see. I know I made you feel alone while laying right next to you, and if there is an uglier thing a husband can do than that, I do not know what it is. I made you question yourself when I should have been the place your self-doubt came to die. I made you feel second when you are the first, last, and only woman who ever made this life feel like home to me.”

That one struck her square in the chest, and it showed.

He kept going.

“I know I got lazy with sacred things,” he said, and now his voice had gone unsteady around the edges, as though the truth itself was starting to take pieces out of him on the way through. “That’s what really happened, Stevie. I got lazy with something holy. I got used to you loving me right. Got used to your loyalty, your softness, your sharp mouth, your patience, your body next to mine at night, your laugh in the kitchen, the way you know how to look at me when I’m lying to myself even before I know I’m doing it. I got so used to you being my constant that I stopped acting like I had to protect what I had. And that… that is on me. Not on grief. Not on her. Not on circumstance. On me.”

By then the water had long since soaked every inch of him, but still he looked thirsty, thirsty in that old biblical way, like a man kneeling in the middle of his own drought asking for rain he knew he did not deserve.

“I need you to hear me say this plain,” he said, lifting his face to hers again, and his eyes were so open, so full, so frightened in their sincerity that it made something low in her chest ache. “I did not stop loving you. I stopped behaving like a man afraid to lose you, and that is its own kind of sin. I behaved like your love was guaranteed. Like your heart was some fixed thing that would survive whatever I put it through. Like you would keep being home no matter how badly I neglected to act like I lived there too. And baby…” His voice cracked on the word, softened, broke, then came back rougher. “Baby, I know now that is not devotion. That is entitlement. That is carelessness. That is me treating the greatest thing I have ever been given like it would never get tired of bleeding for me.”

A tear cut through the water on her cheek before she even knew it had fallen.

Ledger’s hands tightened, just barely, against her thighs, and his own breathing changed at the sight of it.

“I hated myself every day you were gone,” he whispered. “Not in no dramatic, poor-me way. In the real way. In the way where the whole world starts looking like evidence of what you ruined. I hated the bed because you weren’t in it. I hated my phone because every time it lit up it wasn’t you until one day I started being scared it might be a coroner instead. I hated the bar because your laugh wasn’t in it. Diem asked for Mama Stevie, and I swear to God that little girl saying your name almost took me clean out. Every single day you stayed gone, I kept thinking maybe this is it, maybe this is the punishment, maybe I don’t get to hear her cuss me out again, maybe I don’t get to fix shit, maybe I really did love the one person who knew me best into walking clean out my life.”

His head bowed then, and when he spoke again it sounded like prayer said by a man who had never once trusted himself enough to pray pretty.

“I drove up here with your ring in my pocket and fear in my throat, and all I knew was that if I got one more chance to stand in front of you, I was not gone waste it hiding behind pride. So here it is. The whole ugly thing. I did what I did because I was weak and grieving and selfish and too full of my own hurt to see that I was passing it into you like poison. I did it because guilt made me feel righteous for a minute and I let that righteousness turn into familiarity where it never should have. I did it because I trusted your love to survive my negligence, and that was a betrayal all by itself.”

The steam curled around his shoulders like smoke off a burnt offering.

“And I know that may not be enough,” he said, looking up at her with a tenderness so raw it hurt to meet. “I know understanding why does not magically make what I did smaller. I know saying I’m sorry doesn’t crawl inside your chest and put your heart back together neat. I know begging might look pathetic right now, and maybe it is, but I am way past being worried about looking pathetic in front of the woman I want my whole damn life with.”

Then, as if the last defenses in him finally collapsed under the sheer weight of truth, he brought one hand up, palm open against the center of his own chest, right over the frantic hammering of his heart.

“I love you,” he said, and there was no flourish in it, no slickness, only devastating fact. “I love you in the ugly, ordinary, everyday ways that matter when the adrenaline gone and the lights come on. I love you in the way I reach for your side of the bed half-asleep. I love you in the way I know your footsteps. I love you in the way every room still looks arranged wrong if you ain’t in it. I love you in the way my body knew you were missing before my mind caught up. I love you in the way I was losing my fucking mind every day you stayed gone because there is no version of my life that does not bend around your name.”

His eyes closed then, and when he opened them again, they looked wet and wrecked and almost boyishly unguarded.

“And if you tell me I gotta spend the rest of my life proving that love got discipline in it now, then that’s what I’ll do. If you tell me I gotta earn every inch of softness back, I’ll do that too. If you tell me you hate me today and maybe tomorrow and maybe next week too, I’ll stand there and take it as long as you don’t shut me out of your life for good.” He swallowed hard. “But do not stand there and think I came all this way for pride. I came because I cannot do this world without you in it. I came because my wife left and took the oxygen with her. I came because I know exactly what I risked, and I am telling you on my knees, in the only way that means anything now, that I know I was wrong.”

He shifted closer then, not enough to press, only enough that the heat of him lived fully in her space, and his voice lowered to something deep and aching and reverent.

“Take all the time you need to be mad,” he murmured. “Take all the time you need to hate what I did. But don’t you ask yourself again if I fell out of love with you, because that never happened. What happened is uglier and dumber and more human than that, and I am ashamed of it all the way to the bone. But I never stopped loving you, Dasha. I stopped deserving you for a while. That is the truth.”

Another tear slipped over her cheek.

Ledger reached up like he wanted to catch it, then checked himself halfway and let his hand fall again, because even now, even on his knees, he was learning that wanting to comfort her and having earned the right were not the same thing.

So he stayed there and let the words finish stripping him clean.

“I want my wife back,” he said, and the sentence came out so wrecked, so stripped of ego, that it did not sound like possession at all, only yearning in its oldest, most humble form. “Not just your body. Not just your face in my house. Not just your ring on your hand. I want you back. Your trust, if it can grow back. Your mouth, even when it’s slick. Your honesty, even when it hurts. Your laugh. Your weight next to me in bed. The way you make a place feel like ours just by standing in it. I want the chance to love you with the kind of care I should have had the first time.”

His breath shook.

“I am begging you,” he said, and now there could be no mistaking it, no dressing it up as anything else. He was. On his knees, under hot water, looking at her like she held the answer to every prayer he had been too cowardly to pray aloud until now. “I am begging you not to let the worst thing I ever did be the last thing I get to be to you. Be mad at me. Make me work. Make me sit in it. Make me tell the truth every single time you need to hear it. But please… please do not decide I loved you too little. I loved you so much I got stupid with the safety of it, and I know now that stupidity can break a heart just as bad as hatred can. Let me fix what I can. Let me spend however long it takes learning how to be the kind of man your love should have always been safe with.”

And there, beneath the relentless rush of water, with the steam curling around him like the remnants of burned pride and all six foot five of him folded down into remorse and reverence, Ledger Ward looked less like a man trying to save himself and more like one finally willing to be remade if it meant he might still have the woman he loved when the water stopped running.

Then, quieter, with a kind of tenderness that nearly broke the room in half, he whispered, “I miss my wife so bad it hurts to breathe, Stevie. Please don’t leave me kneeling here for nothing.”

Dasha stood there looking down at him, and for the first time since he had stepped into the cabin, since the porch and the accusations and the sharp, ugly little knives they had both been flinging just to keep from bleeding too openly, there was no slickness left in her face at all.

It had all gone.

The sarcasm. The defiance. The quick, mean wit she used when she needed to turn pain into performance before it swallowed her whole.

What remained in its place was worse, and softer, and far more dangerous.

Just hurt. Just love. Just the trembling, naked truth of a woman standing over her husband while he knelt in the steam, and finally no longer having the strength to disguise what his betrayal had actually done to her.

The water poured over them both in warm, ceaseless ribbons, kissing her shoulders, running down the line of her arms, soaking his bent head and broad back until he looked less like a man in that moment and more like an offering laid bare. Steam moved around them in pale, ghostlike swirls, climbing the tile, clouding the mirror, turning the bathroom into something almost dreamlike, as if the world outside had been temporarily shut out so there would be room enough for only this—this marriage, this wound, this brutal little mercy of still loving one another after the worst part had been spoken aloud.

Dasha’s chest rose slowly.

Then slowly again.

And when she finally spoke, her voice came quiet and full and trembling at the edges, not because she was unsure of what she meant, but because the meaning of it was too large to carry carelessly.

“That’s the part that make it hurt so bad,” she whispered. “Not just that you broke my heart, not just that you made me feel alone, not just that it was her of all people, but that you are my best friend, Ledger.”

The words seemed to settle on him physically.

She saw it happen.

Saw the way his shoulders tightened under the water, the way his head bowed a little lower, the way his hands—those big, capable hands that had built things for her, held her, fed her, touched her, steadied her—went still against the tile like even they did not know what to do with that truth except receive it.

Dasha swallowed.

Tears had begun gathering again, not dramatic, not wild, just there, thickening her eyes until the whole room looked slightly blurred around the edges.

“You are my best friend,” she said again, more softly this time, and there was something almost disbelieving in the repetition, as if she were still trying to understand how a sentence that sweet could contain so much ache. “You are the person I tell everything to. You know my face before I know my face. You know when I’m lying and when I’m tired and when I need to be left alone and when I’m saying I’m fine but really I just need you to keep asking until I crack. You know what my panic looks like before it even fully gets a hold of me. You know how hard I fought for my sobriety. You know what scares me. You know what makes me feel ugly. You know what makes me feel small. You know where all my soft places are.”

Her mouth trembled then, and she pressed her lips together for a second, trying to steady them, but there were some truths that shook the body on their way out and could not be forced into elegance.

“And that,” she said, a little more brokenly now, “is what made this feel different. Because if it had been some man I barely knew, if it had been somebody who ain’t ever really seen me, who ain’t know what I carry, who ain’t know what it cost me to get here, maybe I could have called it cruelty and left it there. Maybe I could’ve said, well, he was careless, or he was selfish, or he was weak, and maybe all of that would still be true, but with you…” Her breath hitched. “With you, it felt like something else. It felt like the one person who knew exactly how to handle my heart picked it up with full knowledge of what it was made of and still let it slip.”

Ledger shut his eyes.

Dasha watched him do it and hated, even now, that some part of her wanted to comfort him through hearing about her own pain, because that was the tragedy of loving your best friend, wasn’t it, that tenderness did not always obey logic, and care did not leave cleanly just because anger had every right to.

“You knew me,” she whispered. “That’s what keep circling back in my head. You knew me. You knew how my mind works when it gets dark. You knew how long it take me to trust somebody with my whole chest. You knew how I loved you. Not in some vague, surface way. You knew it in the little ways that matter. In the way I reached for you in my sleep. In the way I called you first. In the way I still looked for your face in every room without even meaning to. In the way I folded you into every version of my future like it was automatic. You knew that, Ledger. You knew how fully I was yours.”

The water ran harder over his shoulders, or maybe it only looked that way now because he had gone so still beneath it.

Dasha drew in another breath, and this one shook all the way down.

“And because you knew me so well,” she said, “it made it feel like you had to know what this would do to me too. Maybe not all the way, maybe not every detail, maybe not the full violence of it, but enough. Enough to understand that if you blurred that line, if you let that woman live in emotional spaces that belonged to us, if you turned away from me while I was still standing there trying to love you through it, then I was gone feel it. You had to know I was gone feel it.”

A tear slipped over then, and she let it.

She did not wipe it away. Did not hide from it. Did not make a joke around it.

She simply stood there in the steam and let the grief in her face have its own shape.

“That’s why I was asking myself if you fell out of love with me,” she said quietly. “Because the other option hurt worse. The other option was that you still loved me and did this anyway, and I did not know how to hold that without it turning me inside out. I did not know what to do with the fact that my best friend, my husband, the man who knows me better than anybody else on this earth, could still be the one to put this kind of loneliness in me.”

Ledger’s face folded at that, not dramatically, not with big visible tears or anything easy to absolve, but with the awful, silent devastation of a man being made to sit inside the full architecture of the pain he built.

Dasha looked down at him and felt the weight of their whole life at once, years of laughter and routine and private language and ordinary tenderness, the thousand small moments that had made him the safest place she knew, all pressing up against this one ugly fracture where safety had failed her. And because she was no longer being slick, because the performance had burned off and only truth was left, her voice softened into something almost unbearably tender despite everything.

“You were the one person I thought would be careful with me without me having to ask,” she admitted. “That’s the grace I gave you. That’s the faith I had in you. I did not feel like I had to guard myself with you. I did not feel like I had to stay halfway packed and halfway suspicious and halfway hard just in case. With you I let my shoulders drop. I let my guard down. I let myself be soft. I let myself trust that if the world got mean, I could come home to you and not have to fight there too.”

She laughed once then, softly, bitterly, sadly, and the sound of it almost seemed to shiver in the steam.

“So when it started feeling like I had to fight for your full attention too, I ain’t even know what to call that. It felt like my own house turning strange on me. It felt like reaching for the light switch in the dark and realizing somebody moved the damn wall.”

Her fingers curled loosely at her sides.

The shower was warm, but something in her still looked cold.

“And I don’t think you meant to be cruel,” she said after a moment, and there, at last, was the grace, fragile and exhausted but real. “That’s part of what makes this so hard, because I don’t think you woke up trying to break me. I don’t think you sat around plotting how to make me feel little. I know grief had your ass in a chokehold. I know guilt got in your bones. I know you was lost in it. I know all of that. And maybe that’s why I’m still standing here talking to you instead of slamming this shower door in your face, because I know you. I know your heart. I know the difference between you being evil and you being weak. And you were weak, Ledger. God, you were weak. But I know weak ain’t the same as wicked.”

That one seemed to undo him almost more than the harshest thing she had said all morning.

Because mercy, when it comes from the person you have wronged, never arrives light.

It arrives heavy. Holy. Humbling.

Dasha’s voice dropped even lower then, barely louder than the water.

“But grace don’t mean it didn’t hurt,” she whispered. “Grace don’t mean I wasn’t sitting up there in that cabin wondering what part of me you stopped treasuring. Grace don’t mean I wasn’t questioning myself in ways I hate. Grace don’t mean I didn’t spend three weeks feeling like maybe the person who loved me best had looked right at me and still decided I was sturdy enough to survive neglect.”

Ledger bowed his head further, and Dasha saw his throat work, saw the visible effort it took for him to remain there and receive this without interrupting, without rushing to comfort, without making her pain smaller just because his own guilt was screaming to do something with it.

“And I’m trying,” she said, voice fraying at the edges now. “I’m trying real hard not to make your worst mistake the whole story of you, because I know the rest of you too. I know the man who makes my coffee the way I like it before I’ve fully opened my eyes. I know the man who can clock a panic attack before I even say a word. I know the man who rubs my feet when I’ve had a long day, who talks to me in the kitchen, who knows how to make me laugh when I’m trying not to. I know that man too. That’s why this is so hard. Because I’m not grieving a villain. I’m grieving the place where my best friend failed me.”

That sentence seemed to ring in the room after she said it, thin and clear and devastating as a struck bell.

The place where my best friend failed me.

Dasha’s face crumpled then, finally, not in full collapse, not in a way that suggested hopelessness, but enough that the whole vulnerable center of her was visible, trembling in the open air between them.

“I still love you,” she confessed, and her voice broke clean on the words. “That’s the part that make me maddest. I still love you. I still look at you and see home mixed up with hurt. I still want comfort from the same man I’m hurt by. I still know your face better than mine some days. And I hate that I have to figure out how to hold all that at once.” A tear slipped over her mouth and she tasted the salt of it without wiping it away. “Because you’re not just my husband, Ledger. You’re my person. You’re my best friend. So when you broke my heart, it wasn’t just a man doing it. It was my safest place going wrong.”

The bathroom felt very small then.

Very warm. Very close. Very sacred.

Dasha looked down at him where he knelt, all that strength folded into remorse, and for the first time since he’d arrived, what moved through her was not only fury, not only grief, but the first fragile shape of mercy trying to rise through both.

“I’m telling you this because I need you to understand the scale of it,” she whispered. “Not so you drown in guilt. Not so you sit there and hate yourself more. But because if there is a way back for us, it got to be built on you really understanding what broke. It wasn’t just trust. It wasn’t just fidelity in some neat little marriage-counselor sense. It was friendship. It was knowingness. It was me believing that the man who knew me deepest would also be the man who protected me best.”

Her breathing hitched again, but she steadied it this time.

“And I want to believe you can be that man again,” she said, and there it was—the grace, the little opening, the sliver of light through the door. “I do. I would not still be standing here if some part of me ain’t believe that. But you gotta understand why I’m hurt like this. You gotta understand why this cut all the way to the bone. You didn’t just lose sight of your wife for a while. You lost sight of your best friend too, and I felt that.”

The last words came out almost in a whisper.

And then she fell quiet, standing there under the shower with her face wet from more than one source, looking down at the man she loved with all the tenderness and sorrow of somebody who had finally stopped trying to be sharp enough to hide how deep the wound really was.

And because she loved him, because she knew him, because even now she was still giving him the truth in a way meant to save rather than destroy, there was no final cruelty in it, no closing of the door, only the awful, beautiful honesty of a woman finally letting the man who broke her heart see exactly where it had broken—and exactly why he might still, if he was worthy enough now, be the one to help hold it while it healed.

For a moment after she finished, Ledger did not move at all.

He just stayed there on his knees beneath the shower, water running over him in silver sheets, his head bowed like a man who had just been handed something too holy to touch without first trembling. Dasha could see the weight of her words settle over him in real time, could see the way they moved through his face and shoulders and breath, not glancing off, not deflected, but entering and remaining. He looked altered by them. Struck through. Softened in the deepest places. And when he finally lifted his head to look at her, there was something in his eyes so open, so full, so helplessly devoted that it made her stomach clench before he even laid a hand on her.

Slowly, reverently, Ledger rose.

He did not spring to his feet. He unfolded. Like something solemn. Like a prayer being lifted. Like a man returning from the floor of a chapel with his faith bloodied but intact. Water streamed down the length of him as he stood, over the hard planes of his chest, the dark lines of his tattoos, the broad, wet slope of his shoulders, until he was fully upright in front of her again, all heat and remorse and that terrible, beautiful steadiness he only seemed to find once he had told the whole truth.

Dasha did not realize she had gone still until he reached for her.

His hand came up first to her face, not fast, not greedy, just warm and sure and shaking ever so slightly where his palm settled against her cheek. That tiny tremor nearly undid her more than anything else. Because Ledger was many things, but careless with her when he was sincere had never been one of them. His thumb brushed once beneath her eye, catching water or tears or both, and the tenderness of it made the room feel smaller, the air thicker, the space between her heartbeat and her body more perilously thin.

“You hear me now?” he murmured, and his voice was low enough to curl through her like smoke. “You know where I stand?”

Dasha looked at him through wet lashes and tried to answer, but whatever was meant to come out dissolved somewhere in her throat. All she managed was the smallest nod, and something in Ledger’s expression broke open at the sight of it, not into grief this time, but into want so steeped in tenderness it felt almost dangerous.

“Good,” he whispered.

Then he leaned in and kissed her.

Not hard. Not hungry at first. Not the kind of kiss that rushed to take because it was afraid the moment might vanish. No, this was slower than that, deeper than that, the kiss of a man who had just had his wife’s heart laid open in front of him and knew better than to touch anything in a hurry. His mouth found hers like he was returning something, like he was placing his own heart there to see if she would still allow it to beat in her direction. Warm. Deliberate. Wrecked with gratitude. The kind of kiss that carried apology and awe in equal measure, that said I hear the scale of what I did and I am still here, and I am still yours enough to tremble.

Dasha felt the sound she made before she heard it, a small, involuntary thing, soft and frayed and far too intimate to belong to anyone but him. Ledger answered by deepening the kiss just slightly, angling his head and drawing her nearer with the hand at her face while his other found her waist and settled there with a steadiness that nearly made her knees weaken. He did not grab. He held. He held her the way one held something found again.

The shower water poured over both of them, hot and ceaseless, running between their bodies where they stood close enough now that the heat of his skin felt indistinguishable from the heat of the water. Steam gathered around them in pale veils, and the whole room blurred at the edges until it seemed there was nothing left in the world but tile and breath and the slow, devastating press of his mouth.

When he finally drew back, it was only far enough to let his forehead rest against hers.

“You are still my best friend,” he said, and the line landed low in her body like a bell. “Still the first person I wanna tell shit to. Still the only person I want in my bed when the lights go out. Still the woman I look for first.” His thumb moved against her jaw in one slow pass that felt far too intimate for how little it was. “Still my wife in every way that matters.”

That did something ugly and beautiful to her at once.

Before she could stop herself, her fingers rose and caught at his shoulders, then slid higher, tracing the wet line of his neck, and Ledger let out a breath against her mouth that sounded almost like pain. Not bad pain. Not exactly. The sort of pain that came when relief arrived dressed as touch and the body did not know whether to cry or thank God.

He kissed her again.

This time there was more of him in it.

More ache. More want. More of the old Ledger pull she knew too well, the one that always made her feel like he was kissing not just her mouth but the entire history of them, every private softness, every ordinary tenderness, every time they had ever found each other in the dark and known exactly where to go.

His hand at her waist slid around to the small of her back, warm and broad and unignorable, and drew her flush against him until no space remained between them but steam. Dasha felt the shape of him, the solidity of him, the living, breathing fact of her husband there with her after three weeks of absence and fear and rage and unanswered questions, and the contrast of it made her head go light. Because this was what had always been so dangerous about Ledger, wasn’t it, that even his tenderness had weight to it. Even when he was gentle, he still felt like something a woman could give her whole self to and never get back the same.

“You drive me out my damn mind,” he murmured against her lips.

It was almost a smile, almost a complaint, almost a confession, and before she could shape some half-hearted retort, he kissed her again and swallowed it whole. Dasha’s hands slid fully into his hair now, wet and dark beneath her fingers, and the sound that left him this time came from deeper, something rough and low and thoroughly male, the kind of sound that made her heart jump and her stomach clench at once.

Ledger tipped her face back just enough to look at her, really look at her, and what lived in his eyes then was enough to ruin a woman’s peace all by itself.

“You have any idea,” he said softly, “what it did to me to not know where you were sleeping?”

Dasha’s breath caught.

He did not wait for an answer.

“Any idea what it did to me,” he went on, his mouth brushing the corner of hers between every phrase like he could not bear for too many words to exist untouched, “to not know if you were warm, if you were eating, if you were crying somewhere by yourself, if you were reaching for me and stopping your own hand because of what I did?”

That one went straight through her.

She felt it physically, felt it land like a hand around the center of her, because that was the ugly intimacy of him, the way he always seemed to know the exact line that would turn her insides soft and trembling if he spoke it low enough.

“I hated every mile between us,” he whispered. “Every single one.”

Then he kissed down the line of her jaw, not hurried, not rough, each touch of his mouth a small act of worship made dangerous by how badly he seemed to mean it. Dasha’s head tipped back against the tile with a quiet little breath she did not mean to give him, and Ledger’s hand at her back spread wider, as if the sound itself had called something possessive and aching up out of him.

“Ledger,” she whispered.

He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes.

“What?”

The way he said it made her pulse stutter. Low. Intimate. Entirely too aware.

She shook her head once, but whatever she had meant to say dissolved when he looked at her like that, wet and intent and all but burning with a devotion made sharper by guilt.

“Tell me not to kiss you again,” he said quietly. “Tell me that, and I’ll stop.”

The line landed like a blade wrapped in velvet.

Because he knew. Of course he knew. He knew there was no world in which she wanted him to stop, not really, not here, not now, not after everything they had just bared between them. He knew, and instead of wielding that knowledge carelessly, he laid it in her hands and let her decide what to do with it.

Dasha looked at him, at the water running down his face, at the patience and hunger coiled together in the set of his mouth, at the way his hands held her like she was still the holiest thing he had ever had the right to touch, and she felt the last of her resistance melt into something warmer, deeper, far more treacherous.

So she did not tell him to stop.

She only kissed him.

And Lord, that changed everything.

Ledger made a sound low in his chest and gathered her in closer, one hand leaving her waist to brace against the tile beside her head while the other held fast at the base of her spine. The angle of him shifted, all broad heat and controlled urgency, and Dasha felt herself pinned between the wall and the full, unignorable fact of her husband in a way that should have made her feel trapped and instead made her feel chosen, cornered by love, by apology, by the exact man she had spent three weeks trying and failing not to miss.

Their kisses grew fuller after that, still not rushed, still reverent in their own way, but threaded now with something darker and more alive, the old insatiable current between them returning by slow, devastating degrees. Dasha followed his mouth when he pulled back for air, and the little sound of frustration she made at the loss of it drew a flash of something almost wicked from him.

“There she is,” he murmured, mouth hovering just above hers.

Her brows drew together faintly, dazed. “Who?”

“My wife,” he said, and then kissed her so deeply the answer lived in her pulse.

That line. That damn line.

It made her stomach drop and flutter all at once.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, and Ledger shuddered, actually shuddered, the reaction moving visibly through him from shoulders to hips, and the sheer force of what her touch still did to him made something hot and helpless unfurl in her chest. He kissed her like a starving man who had been made to remember his hunger only after being told exactly what he had almost lost. Like a man who had spent three weeks talking to her absence and had finally been allowed to touch something real again.

“I missed this mouth,” he breathed against hers.

And then, lower, rougher, with his forehead pressed to hers and his hand spread hot and heavy at her back:

“I missed my damn girl.”

That one nearly took her out.

Because it was not slick. Not rehearsed. Just his voice, stripped down to the hidden, needy center of it, saying the one thing that had probably lived under every call, every mile, every sleepless night.

Dasha’s eyes fluttered shut as he kissed the corner of her mouth, then the place just beside it, then came back to her lips like he had no intention of being anywhere else for very long. The steam had gone thick enough now that the whole bathroom felt cocooned in heat, the mirror fully clouded, the air dense with water and skin and the ache of two people standing very close to the edge of forgiveness and not yet brave enough to call it that.

Ledger’s thumb brushed once along the side of her ribs, almost absentminded, and she drew in a breath so sharp he looked at her instantly, eyes dropping to her mouth.

“Too much?” he asked.

Dasha shook her head.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“No.”

His gaze held hers another beat, checking, always checking now in a way that made her chest hurt all over again, and then he leaned in and kissed her with the kind of gentleness that felt indecent in its intimacy.

“Good,” he whispered. “'Cause I’m not done reminding you.”

There it was again, that low, dangerous Ledger softness, the one that always sounded like a promise and a threat and a prayer braided into one. His nose brushed hers. His lips lingered just shy of hers.

“You are still the only woman I know how to come undone for,” he said.

And God.

That line did exactly what it was supposed to do.

Heart jumped. Stomach clenched. Everything inside her went warm and liquid and horribly aware.

Before she could gather herself enough to answer, his mouth found hers once more, slower now but no less frisky for it, all aching patience and building heat, and the room seemed to draw in tight around them, the water still running, the steam rising, the rest of the morning slipping further and further away until there was nothing left but his hands, his voice, and the terrible, beautiful way he kissed like he was trying to melt repentance and desire into the same language.

And that was where the rest of it began.

**song recommendation: " Close by Ella Mai **

“You gon’ let me touch you, Wonder?” he murmured against her lips as he looked down at her. Dasha’s breath stuttered as her body involuntarily folded into his, like a moth to a flame, a masochist to pain. He was too ingrained in her system for her to say no, to ever fully push him away. She let out a breath as she nodded, not trusting her voice not to crack from the weight of the moment.

Backing her against the shower wall he knelt between her legs, putting one over his shoulder as he pressed a kiss to her pussy lips, pulling her closer to him as he took a deep inhale of her, sending his senses haywire a smile twitched on his lips as he looked up at her, the way her curls ran down her back, free from the tracks and the sew in, black like ink coills and curls drenched by water as she pushed them from her eyes, unfiltered lust in her eyes as she looked down at him.

He ran his tongue through her folds, and she gasped so hard he thought she was going to jump up off him. It had been a while, he thought. Damn near two month since he’d done this, tsken the time to worship his wife, his one and only, to show her how much he worshipped her, he wanted to eat her whole, to be full of all she was, her rage, her love everything, he wanted Dasha in ways thst weren’t physically people and would make a therapist concerned, he was a fool he realised as he buried his face deeper into her, tasting her ambrosia and his instincts coming back to him like second nature, like a muscle he’d been training all his life, a language only he knew the dialect to.

“Oh, baby,” she moaned out into the steamy bathroom.

He hummed into her, the vibration made her jolt as she shut her eyes with a whine as he continued to flick his tongue over her, taking her clit into his mouth as he sped it up, her hand raked into his overgrown buzzcut, his facial hair scratching her thighs, a delicious burn that spurred her closer to the edge. “You missed me eating your pussy, baby?”

Words jumbled together she responded in gibberish, his tongue deep inside her, removing her ability to respond let alone thing straight. “You needed me in those guts for you to stop thinking that stupid shit didn’t you baby? On some ‘When did you fall out of love’,” he mumbled against her as he spread her wider against the wall, as he inserted his middle and index finger, her back arching against the tiled wall, with a while as she moved her hips, fucking him back, frinding onto his face as her hand tightened against his scalp, fingers digging in slightly as she moved against him, using him for her own release. Not that he minded…he’d be content to live his life between her thighs.

Releasing her clit, he looked up at her ignoring her whine as she worked herself over on his fingers. “You give my shit away Dasha?” he asked her as he inserted a third finger into her, ignoring the cramping in his arm, he’s used to playing through pain, so much so that if he got it while tending to his girl? He’d relish it, take it as penance, a worthy punishment for his wrongdoings.

When she didn't answer his gaze darkened and he took his fingers out of her, spreading her juices on his hardening cock as he stared her down before grabbing her by the throat and hauling her forward so they were face to face. “I asked you a question, Dasha.”

“N-no I didn't, I would never,”she whispered and Ledger hummed as he connected their lips, their lips sloppy as they moved against one another, tongues intertwining as be brought her hand onto his throbbing cock and encouraged her to wrap her hand around him, his tongue exploring her mouth as she stroked bim, from base to tip, increasing pressure gradually as she neared his flush tip and rubbed the flesh underneath, ensuing to flick her wrist slightly and lightly graze her nails against the sensitive flesh. Just as she moved to get on her knees Ledger stopped her. “Nah, bend over for me, hands on the glass.”

Knowing not to test him she did as she was told, he widened her stance as he stood behind her, grazing the blunt head of his cock through her folds once, twice, thrice before entering her. He watched as dasha’d fingertips curled in on themselves as he bottomed out, the curve of him dragging against her walls in a way that made her whimper at the stretch…it’d been so long, so so long.

“I know, I know baby,” he soothed as he ran a hand over her spine, soothing her so he could move, “So tight, still so damn tight, fuck,” he cursed as he tried to get her to ease up on him.

He bent down to kiss her shoulder and down her back as he rubbed at her clit. She sighed as she relaxed, and he took that as his cue to pull out slowly, almost all the way and slam back in hard. The wet slap echoed in the room as she let out a long moan. Pulling her up so her back was to his front, he took her mouth into his as he swallowed her moans, his steady thrusts hitting that spot over and over

He spotted the shower head from the corner of his eye, and reached blindly to ease the pressure, from a harsh steam to a light shower, keeping his one arm groping her breast, fondling the flesh while he stroked in and out of her he brought the shower head to her clit, he watched as she jolted from ghe stimulation, her body hummed wiith pleasure as she whined into his mouth as he stole her air, making her go lightheaded, his hand abandoning her brest ti press fown on where he could see the outline of him as he thrust into her, over and over and over.

“You know imma kill a nigga behind you,” he rasped low into her ear as he punched the air out of her with his hips. “Yeah, you do, you know that shit, you bring a nigga into our bar again, Dasha, that's exactly what imma do, and I'm gonna make him watch too. You’re mine, Dasha, mine, took me a minute to remember I’m yours, but trust, daddy’s back, baby.”

He sucked at her neck, purplish bruises blossoming against her dark brown skin as he ran his tongue over them to soothe the ache. “You not gon’ hide these either, gonna show everyone who the fuck you belong to.” Her nails dug into his forearm, pushing pack on Ledger as she met his thrusts, eager to fuck him back as he sped up, punishing rolls of his hips making her toes curl and her mind go blank as she clenched down hard, a broken moan tore from her throat as the pressure snapped, thighs trembling and pussy pulsing around him as he fucked her through it; walls fluttering as stars clustered at the corner of her eyes. He groaned low as he fucked her though it, thrusting deeply as hus hipd stuttered, “F-Fuck.” his deep raspy moans tumbled put of his lips as he buried himself down to the hilt, pressing down on her belly feeling evrey twitch as he spilt hot and heavy inside her, two moths worth of release painting her walls dripping down his balls and washed away by the water from the shower. She whimpered as her body shook from the aftershocks. He kissed down her neck as he shallowly thrust into her, putting the shower head back where it was as she sighed from relief.

“You alright, mama?”

“Mhm.”

“Good… turn around for me, I ain’t done, got months to make up for.”

…

Dasha sighed as she lay in bed, her hair tucked away in neat twists beneath her bonnet, her body heavy with that delicious, bone-deep weariness that came after too much emotion, too much truth, too much of each other all at once. Behind her, Ledger was folded into her like he had always belonged there, tucked warm and shameless between her thighs under the blanket, claiming something about being cold in that low, gruff voice of his that never fooled her for even a second, and still she let him stay, let him seek whatever comfort he was after in the cradle of her body, because for all the sharpness they’d thrown at each other, for all the hurt still tender between them, there was something in the way he curled himself around her now that felt less like appetite and more like relief. His chest was warm against her back, his breathing slow and full and satisfied in a way that made the whole room feel softer, and with a long sigh that sounded like contentment dragged all the way down into the soul, she let her eyes drift half-shut as his hand moved lazily beneath the oversized shirt he had draped over her, tracing the quiet geography of her body with absent reverence, as if even now he could not quite stop checking that she was still there.

Her once-bare ring finger sparkled in the low light.

That tiny flash of gold caught her eye before she meant for it to, and for a moment she simply looked at it, looked at the ring sitting back where it belonged as though it, too, was still trying to understand how it had made its way home. There was something almost unbearably intimate about seeing it there now, not because it solved everything, not because one piece of jewelry could undo three weeks of pain or erase what had happened, but because of what it meant in this particular room, in this particular hour. Not certainty. Not absolution. Something more fragile and perhaps more honest than that. A decision made in tenderness. A door not closed. A vow returned to the hand that had once thrown it away in grief and fury, not because the marriage had been magically mended, but because neither of them had stopped belonging to it, not really.

Ledger noticed her looking.

Of course he did.

He noticed everything when it came to her, especially now, as if nearly losing sight of her had sharpened every instinct in him into something almost supernatural. His fingers slowed beneath the shirt, then slid lightly over her wrist before finding the hand resting in front of her and threading through it. His thumb brushed once over the ring, slow enough to feel deliberate.

“You keep staring at it like it might bite you,” he murmured into the back of her neck.

Dasha let out a sleepy little huff. “I’m trying to decide if I like you again or if I just had a moment of weakness.”

Ledger’s breath warmed the shell of her ear, and she felt, more than saw, the crooked little smile that touched his mouth.

“That what we calling all that?” he asked. “A moment of weakness?”

“Nigga, please,” she muttered, though there was no real venom left in it now, only that old slick softness that always showed up when she was too tired to properly fight and too fond of him not to answer back. “Don’t get cocky because I let you back in my good graces enough to breathe on me.”

“I ain’t cocky,” he said, sounding immediately offended, which only made her mouth twitch. “I’m grateful.”

Dasha snorted. “Liar.”

“Mm-mm,” he said, tightening his arm around her waist and settling closer with the kind of sleepy possessiveness that might have irritated her if it didn’t feel so much like home. “Try again.”

For a few quiet seconds, they said nothing else. The room held them gently, the lamp low, the sheets warm and slightly rumpled around their legs, the night deep and hush-filled on the other side of the windows. It was the kind of silence only married people really knew how to share, not empty, not strained, but lived in, with little pockets of feeling moving around inside it. Dasha could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing behind her, could feel the occasional ghost of his mouth against her shoulder where he seemed unable to stop pressing absentminded kisses, as if his body was still in the habit of thanking God for her return without asking permission from the rest of him first.

Eventually, she spoke, and when she did, the playfulness in her voice had softened into something lower and more thoughtful.

“I really am sorry,” she said quietly. “For the running.”

Ledger went still against her, not hard, not tense, just attentive in that immediate way of his, like every cell in his body had turned to listen.

Dasha swallowed and kept her eyes on her hand, on the ring, on the little gold circle catching the light like something both fragile and stubborn.

“I know I was wrong for disappearing like that,” she went on. “I know I scared you. I know I scared everybody. Maya ain’t deserve that. Grace ain’t deserve that. Diem sure as hell ain’t deserve that.” Her voice thinned a little at the little girl’s name, but she held it steady. “And I know, no matter how hurt I was, cutting everybody off the way I did was… it was cruel in its own way. I know that.”

Ledger’s fingers flexed once around hers, but he let her keep going.

“I wasn’t trying to punish Diem,” she said softly. “Or Maya. Or even you, at first. Not really. I just… I needed to get out before I shattered in a way I couldn’t put back together. Everything in me felt loud, Ledger. My pride, my hurt, my anger, my love for you, my embarrassment that I still loved you that hard after feeling played in my face. It was too much, all at once, and I knew if I stayed, I was gonna either say something I couldn’t unsay or fold right there in front of you, and at the time both of those felt worse than leaving.”

Behind her, Ledger exhaled slowly.

Dasha’s voice dropped further, almost to a whisper. “I should’ve called somebody sooner. I know that. I should’ve. That part is on me, and I’m sorry.”

The apology sat between them a moment, warm and honest and undramatic, which somehow made it hit harder. It was not the kind of sorry people gave to smooth conflict over or rush toward resolution. It was the kind that came after you’d sat with yourself long enough to know exactly where your own wrongness lived.

Ledger shifted then, rising just enough to prop himself up on one elbow behind her so he could see her face better, even if only in profile. His hand left hers only long enough to come up and brush the edge of her bonnet lightly, then the line of her cheek, his touch so soft it made her chest ache.

“Baby,” he said, and his voice had gone low and tired and tender in that way she had always loved most, “I ain’t gonna sit here and tell you disappearing like that was okay, because it wasn’t. You know it wasn’t. I know it wasn’t. I damn near lost my mind.”

Dasha let out a tiny sound that was half acknowledgment, half apology all over again.

“But,” he said, and then paused, because he was taking care with this, taking the time to say it clean, “I understand why you ran.”

That made her eyes close for one brief second.

Ledger’s fingers moved over her cheek slowly. “I do. I hate it. I hate what it did to me, and I hate what it did to everybody else, but I understand it. You were drowning in what I did to you. You were hurt, and you were humiliated, and you didn’t trust yourself to stay in the room with me without breaking in half.” His mouth brushed her shoulder once, a kiss so light it felt almost like breath. “I get it. You ran because staying felt more dangerous.”

Dasha let out a shaky little exhale.

“That don’t make it right,” he continued quietly, “but it makes it make sense.”

For a long second she said nothing, and then, with that old stubbornness of hers still somehow alive even in vulnerability, she murmured, “You still got on my nerves coming up here accusing me like I had a nigga stashed in the woods.”

Ledger actually laughed at that, a low, tired sound right into the back of her neck.

“Stevie,” he said. “I found a man walking out your door at dawn.”

“And you was gone crash out whether he was the mailman or not.”

“Absolutely,” he said without a scrap of shame, and the immediacy of it made her bark out a little laugh in spite of herself. “That ain’t even up for debate.”

“Nigga, you are insane.”

“For you? Deeply.” His hand slid down beneath the shirt again, slow and familiar, settling at her waist. “I thought I was about to end up on an episode of Snapped.”

Dasha gave him an incredulous look over her shoulder. “You are not the victim here.”

“I ain’t say I was the victim,” he muttered. “I said I was mentally unwell.”

That pulled another laugh from her, warmer this time, and Ledger smiled into her skin like the sound itself was medicine.

Then the room quieted again, and with it came that softer honesty that always seemed to rise in the aftermath of their little slick-mouthed back-and-forths, the thing beneath the chemistry, beneath the gamesmanship, beneath all the sharpness that made them such perfect opponents and such devastating lovers.

“I don’t want us fighting like this again,” Dasha said after a while. “Not like that. Not to the point where we saying shit just to scar each other.”

Ledger’s arm around her tightened just slightly. “Me either.”

“I mean it,” she said. “Because I know us. I know how we get. We both know exactly where the soft spots are, and when we get mad, we don’t just throw punches, we aim.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We do.”

Dasha turned the ring once around her finger. “And I don’t want to become ugly with you.”

Something in that sentence made Ledger still all over again.

He kissed the back of her shoulder, then rested his forehead there for a second before speaking. “You won’t.”

She huffed. “Please. I was already ugly with you.”

“No,” he murmured. “You were hurt with me. Big difference.”

Dasha looked down, and the tenderness of that undid her a little.

“I said some foul shit.”

“So did I.”

“You covered my mouth in that shower.”

“You needed it.”

She snorted. “Nigga—”

“You did,” he repeated, and she could hear the smile in it now. “Cause you was being reckless with them smart-ass remarks.”

Dasha rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t fully see it from behind her. “You lucky I love you.”

“I am,” he said simply.

That took the air out of her comeback before it had a chance to form.

Ledger pressed a slow kiss beneath her ear, then another, and when he spoke again, his voice had turned more serious.

“We gotta do this different,” he said. “Not tonight. Not all at once. But going forward. I can’t ever let myself get lazy with you like that again. I can’t hide in grief or guilt or being a protector or any of that noble-sounding bullshit and leave you starving in the meantime.” His hand moved over her stomach in a slow pass, soothing without even thinking about it. “And you can’t vanish on me like that either, Stevie. You need space, you take space. You need to curse me out, curse me out. You need your own room, your own week, your own damn mountain if it come to that. But not silence like that. Not disappearing.”

Dasha nodded slowly.

“I know,” she said. “I won’t do that again.”

“You promise?”

She let the question sit there a second, not because she didn’t mean it, but because promises felt heavier now than they had before, less decorative, more sacred.

“Yes,” she said at last. “I promise.”

Ledger kissed the back of her neck once, deeply, like he was sealing the words somewhere private. “Okay.”

“And you,” she said, turning slightly in his arms now so she could catch more of his face, more of the honesty in it, “you don’t get to decide for me what I can survive in this marriage. You don’t get to look at me loving you strong and assume that means I can take whatever.”

His eyes met hers at once.

“I know.”

“No, I need you to really know.”

He nodded, slow and solemn. “I do. I do now.”

Dasha searched his face for a long moment, and what she saw there must have been enough, because some of the guardedness in her expression eased.

“I need you to come to me,” she whispered. “Not every time perfectly. Not every time pretty. But come to me. Don’t go making emotional homes somewhere else because you think I’m strong enough to survive the draft.”

Ledger’s face softened into something that looked almost pained in its sincerity.

“I will,” he said. “Even if it’s ugly. Even if I’m ugly. I’ll bring it to you.”

“Good,” she murmured. “Cause I’d rather fight with you in the truth than sleep next to you in a lie.”

That line sat between them, hot and clean and right.

“Damn,” Ledger muttered after a beat, his mouth curving. “That was cold.”

“It was real.”

“Still cold.”

Dasha smirked faintly. “You’ll live.”

“Only cause you let me.”

There was that chemistry again, easy and dangerous and theirs in a way nothing else could ever quite imitate. It softened the room, made the resolution feel less like a formal treaty and more like the kind of imperfect peace people who truly belonged to each other learned how to make—honest, tender, still carrying bruises, but real.

After a moment, Ledger slid his hand over hers again and looked at the ring.

“You sure?” he asked quietly.

Dasha knew what he meant.

Not sure forever. Not sure everything was magically healed. Not sure the pain was gone.

Sure enough to wear it tonight. Sure enough to keep trying. Sure enough not to walk away from the marriage while they were still standing in the truth of it.

She looked at it too, the gold glinting softly in the bedroom light, then at him.

“I’m sure enough for tonight,” she said.

Ledger’s expression changed at that, became softer, more reverent, because he understood the gift in it. Not a sweeping absolution. Not a fairytale. Something smaller and far more trustworthy.

Enough for tonight.

He kissed her hand, right over the ring.

“That’s enough for me,” he murmured.

Dasha studied him for a second and then asked, with just the faintest trace of mischief returning, “You really thought I was up here playing house with the handyman?”

Ledger tucked himself closer behind her again, shameless and warm and heavy in the most familiar way.

“I thought a lot of things,” he admitted.

“Like what?”

“That I was gone kill him.”

She laughed, tired and real, and hid her face in the pillow.

“Nigga, you are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you my wife, so I get a little leeway.”

“You get no leeway.”

“Mm.” He kissed the back of her shoulder. “That’s not what this ring say.”

Dasha turned just enough to squint at him. “You really feeling yourself right now.”

“I’m feeling relieved,” he corrected. “Different thing.”

She held his gaze for a second longer, then let herself settle fully back into him, into the heat of his chest and the safety of his arm and the weary, aching peace they had managed to carve out of a day that might just as easily have destroyed them all over again.

The room quieted.

His hand stayed on her stomach. Her fingers stayed over his. The ring caught the light every now and then when she shifted, small and gold and stubborn as hope.

And because they were who they were, because neither one of them knew how to leave sweetness alone too long without nudging it sideways into something playful, Dasha murmured, just before sleep could properly gather her,

“You still ain’t shit for how you acted on that porch.”

Ledger’s breath laughed against her neck.

“And you still got a reckless-ass mouth.”

“But you like it.”

“I love it,” he said, kissing her once more. “Big difference.”

That made her smile into the dark.

And this time, when the silence came, it stayed gentle.

tags : @mamasturn @sheinaskirt @authentic-girl03 @k0niiii-blog @trustmymood @glizzymcguirex @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @blackfemreaderr @blckblossom @trustmymood @unicoo @yourleogf @uniqueoutlierblog @og-goddesstrill @determinednot2fall @melaninhawtie @xoadaraox @thatssokarii @kirayuki22 @the1miscief @plan3tch1ld @daliscrim @szatears @that-one-anxious-mango @sonder-slut @saintaquarius (lmk if you wanted to be added or removed )

borednblk

Dasha did not budge. “Who else face I’ma say it to?”

OHHHH MY MESSY ASS WAS LIVINGGGGGG. oh this ate so bad! i live for when i woman isn’t afraid to be bold to a niggas face.

and this had me SCREAMMMINGGGG. oh i live! dasha had ledger go up that mountain like mike had sheila 😭😭!

but my god. the emotion in this is so captivating like this moved me so bad it’s like i know them in real life. oh maam you ate with this one🙂‍↕️.

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